Ah, nerves.
Many of you know that I nearly came apart early on in my career because I was going to have to do the one thing I was terrified of doing. And when I say terrified, I mean heart-pounding, panic-attack, sweaty-palms, spots-dancing-before-your-eyes, stomach-tied-in-embarrassingly-gurgly-knots, on-the-verge-of-passing-out terrified.
Of course I’m talking about speaking in public.
And I’m not talking about a mild case of nerves, either.
I’ve always had problems with being the center of attention. And no, I will not pay for the keyboard you just spit your coffee onto, because I am dead serious. Having people look to me to be the voice of reason, hell, to be the voice at all, isn’t my cuppa.
“But JT,” you say, “that can’t be true. You have such an outgoing, effervescent personality. I’ve seen you at conferences, laughing in the bar, having a grand old time.” And you’d be right – in my element, with my friends, I’m entirely at ease and not worried of making an ass of myself.
But being in front of a group is much, much different than being a part of a group.
I remember, long, long ago, a semi-drunken night at one of Nashville’s adult establishments where I was crying, quite literally, on Randy’s shoulder in fear. “What if the book sells?” I wailed. “I’ll have to talk to people. I’ll have to get up and speak. I don’t think I can do that.”
“You’ll do what you have to,” my eminently practical husband said, before taking me home and pouring me into the bed.
Imagine the terror I felt when the books did sell. The weeks leading up to my debut were unsettling, to say the least. I was planning a launch party, at which I was going to have to, gulp, speak. I wrote out a speech, figuring I’d just read and pray no one laughed to my face. Before I knew it, there were interviews, and signings set up in 12 states, and I knew I needed to conquer my fears, and fast.
I relayed my worry in an offhand comment to my doctor, and he prescribed medication to help me conquer my fear. And conquer my fear it did. Inderal is a beta-blocker, used for lowering blood pressure. It’s the medication they prescribe for people afraid of flying. It works to even your heartbeat so you don’t get the palpitations and sweaty palms. It nips your fear in the bud. “Take it 30 minutes before you go on,” he told me, “and you’ll be fine.”
And strangely enough, it worked.
But it had its drawbacks. Most of my speaking engagements were an hour long, and I’d noticed, somewhere around the 40 minute mark, a wild sense of unreality, like I was outside of myself looking in. My head would feel sort of floaty, and my heart would pound a few beats more than entirely necessary. Which would make me stumble. Not a perfect scenario.
Ultimately, it wasn’t a doctor who cured me, but a fellow writer. My friend James O. Born saw me popping pills at Southern Festival of Books and asked what the deal was. I told him and he laughed— that hearty guffaw that Jim has—and asked me, “What in the world are you afraid of? Do you think the audience is going to rush the stage, throw you down and gang-rape you?”
“Well, no,” I answered.
“Then what’s the big deal?”
He was right, of course. My next event, I skipped the Inderal. I made it through just fine.
That was two years ago. I’ve fully mastered my nerves now. No medication necessary, a few deep breaths before I go on and I’m fine. I’ve gotten to the point when I’m decent at the speaking part, I think. I still much prefer panels and group signings to speaking solo, but I can manage just fine either way. I just turn on JT, author girl, and become what the audience needs to see. My problems are behind me.
Aren’t they?
Not so fast.
I had an event last week, my last of the summer, in fact. I’m taking a few months off promotion to focus on me, something that’s been sorely lacking since I started this gig. I was really looking forward to this event; it felt like a chapter was closing.
Until I woke up at 4 in the morning with some sort of food poisoning.
Terribly sick.
I couldn’t cancel – this event had been booked for months, a large turnout was expected, a bookstore was coming in to sell the books – I just didn’t have the heart to bail on them. So I sucked down a bottle of Pepto and said a prayer.
To no avail. I got sick before I left the house. I got sick as soon as I got to the venue. I managed to meet my hostesses before I had to bolt to the bathroom again. When they served lunch, I nearly came undone at the table.
And suddenly, the nerves kicked in. Nerves like I hadn’t had in two years. Bordering on panic attack nerves. I honestly didn’t think I was going to be able to pull it off. Try as I may, I couldn’t put on my JT, author girl, suit and go get ‘em, tiger. I was shaky and sweaty and pale and feeling terrible, and I couldn’t for the life of me separate me from JT.
I’ve spoken before of the dual personalities that reside inside my body. The people who know me, know my real name and are a part of my real day-to-day life, aren’t always the same people who know JT and are a part of my book life. I do try to keep the two separate, if only as a buffer for the inevitable bad reviews that happen to that poor JT girl. It’s that same other person who takes over when I have to perform. No true artist can let the world see their tortured soul, the tiny, squawking baby bird inside the glorious Phoenix we must project. You drape yourself in whatever invisible cloth you have designed as your mask, do your thing, and shed it when it’s over.
But that little bit of quiet magic wasn’t working for me last week. I finally had to tell my tablemates that I wasn’t feeling all that hot and had a bad case of the nerves, because I think they were about ready to send out for some sort of elephant tranquilizers. They were very sweet, and understanding, and allowed me some space to gather myself, then smartly got me talking about the books until I finally, finally settled down.
They say never let them see you sweat. And no one outside of my table knew I wasn't on my game, which helped. When I got up to speak I was okay. Not great, but okay. I gave them my best, but left disappointed that I couldn’t give them the whole show, the full monty. No one who was there had ever seen me speak before, so I’m sure it came across as completely capable. But it wasn’t my most stellar effort.
I’ve only performed sick one other time, at Left Coast Crime in Denver, just after the Great Kidney Stone Attack of 08. I swore that I’d never do it again, because I don’t want to shortchange the readers. There's a level of expectation involved in public promotion, so much that I understand the desire to be a recluse. I’ve read that Henry Fonda threw up before every performance. I know there are athletes and actors and writers and politicians who do the same. And I applaud every person who tries to overcome their terror and fulfill their purpose. It’s hard, and you should be lauded for your efforts.
For you newbies out there who may be suffering from stage fright, it’s okay. We’ve all been there. The audience is incredibly forgiving. They want to see you succeed. They will be kind. And always remember, no one knows your topic like you do. You are the expert. If you feel yourself faltering, talk about your inspirations and that should get you through the worst of it.
So what about you, ‘Rati? Ever experience performance anxiety? (And that's for everyone - not just authors have to deal with these issues.)
Wine of the Week: 2006 Cellar No. 8 Merlot
June 26, 2009
June 24, 2009
Shadows Fall N Friends Interviews Me about... well... everything.
Hi J.T. and welcome to SHADOWS FALL N FRIENDS. When did you start scribbling? Tell us a bit about your writing history.
I’ve been a writer my whole life. I started young, with picture book stories, little shorts with handmade felt hard covers that I illustrated and carried around proudly. I dabbled in poetry, read anything my parents would let me (which was pretty much everything) and dreamed of being famous one day. Then came my first introduction to the harsh world of publishing.
I won a contest when I was in the third grade – a poetry assignment for the local newspaper. I was studying slavery at the time, and wrote this poem from a slave’s point of view. My grandmother on my Dad’s side was a journalistic type; she wrote a column in the newspaper, did some short romances, that kind of stuff. My parents sent her the poem. She sent it to TRUE CONFESSIONS magazine. I promptly received a very nice REJECTION LETTER. I was eight. I understood why they didn’t want my poem about slavery – really, what’s romantic about that?
Fast forward to college, senior year, and a professor who told me I’d never get published. That probably offhand comment by a frustrated artist killed my creative spirit. I stopped writing, took a job in politics, went to graduate school to learn how to run political campaigns. Met my husband, so I guess I need to thank her at the same time. It’s one of those things, the road not taken, which baffles me. I can’t imagine doing it any other way, but what if she had been encouraging, thought I should go ahead with my MFA? Would I still be here?
Fast forward to 2003. I’m living in Tennessee, am in between jobs, and have some time on my hands while I recover from back surgery. I’m reading John Sandford’s Prey series front to back. I have a wild hair. I’m going to write a book.
What inspired you to write this book?
In 2006, I saw an article from a North Carolina newspaper about a young pregnant mother named Michelle Young who was found murdered by her sister. Her death was unspeakably violent, and her child had been alone in the house for days with her mother’s corpse. The media reported a number of salient details, including the bloody footprints the child had left through the house. I watched the case, hoping there would be a resolution. Unfortunately, Michelle Young’s murder still isn’t solved. Her husband is the prime suspect.
Her story became the opening of JUDAS KISS.
The crime stories that seem to capture our interest as a society are the ones that take place where we feel the safest, which is inside our own homes. That’s where the majority of homicides take place. And we all know how much the media loves a good suburban murder, especially in my fictional Nashville. In the novel, there’s a sense of the fantastic surrounding this case, an “it could have happened to me” mentality couple with the media frenzy – satellite trucks parks on quiet streets, reporters camped on the lawns, every moment chronicled. It doesn’t happen that way in the Section 8 housing. The drug and vendetta killings don’t make the news very much. So in a sense, I’m capitalizing on what does capture our attention.
What kind of work routine did you use?
I’m a night owl, so I rise late in the morning, do the business side (answer email, read Murderati, Twitter, etc.) From 12-4 I write. I shoot for at least 1,000 words a day. It takes me six months to write a book – one month for research, four for writing, and one for editing. In a perfect world, I’d be writing a solid eight months out of the year, and researching and edited in the other four. Unfortunately, it never works that way, because the books go through their process at the house, and need touring, promotion, etc. It’s a juggling act, but an awful lot of fun.
What was the biggest challenge you encountered completing this book?
Actually, I had a lot of trouble because it was the first book I’d ever had more than a bare bones outline for. I had an in-depth 13 page synopsis, and it threw me for a loop because I’m a pantser – I write by the seat of my pants. My feeling is if I’m surprised, the reader will be too. I also think that despite my difficulties having a script to follow, the book is my best effort, the most solid of all my stories. I’m working on the sixth book in the series now, and I’m outlining that one, simply because I have the time and I’d like to see if I’m still anti-outline. I can always throw it out if it becomes too confining.
What was the greatest reward?
The starred Publisher’s Weekly review, hands down. I was shocked, and thrilled.
Why did you choose this particular title for your work?
It’s a literal title – the kiss of betrayal. I named it two years before I wrote it – sometimes a book knows its name from the start. In contrast, my fourth, THE COLD ROOM, is on its third title. I also must, must, must have a title before I can start writing. I can’t work without one.
What advice would you give to writers trying to get published?
Write every day. Read. Write every day. Read. Write every day. Read. Read. Read some more.
And follow your heart. You always hear write what you know. Well, I knew less than nothing about being a cop, but I’m passionate about forensics and behavioral analysis. I wanted to write something I’d enjoy reading, and knew I’d love doing the research. And I get to hang around with a bunch of cops now, so it was all worth it.
What book would you tell them is a must to read and why?
Stephen King’s ON WRITING and Elizabeth George’s WRITE AWAY. King’s book changed the way I thought about my writing. I read it while I was writing JUDAS KISS, and it shows, I think. The George book I read back at the very beginning. It’s a hugely detailed “Process,” and I highly recommend it for writers doing standalone, because it teaches how to world-build. And Christopher Vogler’s THE WRITER’S JOURNEY, which covers the mythic structure of fiction.
Who is your favorite author and why?
I’m a huge, huge fan of so many writers, it’s hard to pinpoint just one. I take different things from different authors and different styles. That said, in crime fiction, John Connolly is one of the most talented writers alive. John Sandford and Lee Child are brilliant series writers, Diana Gabaldon writes my favorite historical time-travel romances. I also love Nabokov, Austen, Rand and Rowling.
What book are you reading right now?
Jeff Abbott’s COLLISION. Mr. Abbott is another one of my favourites – the smart reader’s thriller writer. He’s fantastic.
What advice would you give to a debut novelist to survive in today’s publishing world?
Patience is a virtue, and perseverance is key. Be a good teammate, and MEET YOUR DEADLINES. I can’t emphasize that enough. When your book goes on submission, start the next one. Write thank you notes, and be sure that any kindness you receive, you pay forward. Karma is hard at work in the publishing industry. I have more tips on my website, JTEllison.com.
Thanks for having me!
My pleasure. Thanks for dropping by and all the best with the new book.
I’ve been a writer my whole life. I started young, with picture book stories, little shorts with handmade felt hard covers that I illustrated and carried around proudly. I dabbled in poetry, read anything my parents would let me (which was pretty much everything) and dreamed of being famous one day. Then came my first introduction to the harsh world of publishing.
I won a contest when I was in the third grade – a poetry assignment for the local newspaper. I was studying slavery at the time, and wrote this poem from a slave’s point of view. My grandmother on my Dad’s side was a journalistic type; she wrote a column in the newspaper, did some short romances, that kind of stuff. My parents sent her the poem. She sent it to TRUE CONFESSIONS magazine. I promptly received a very nice REJECTION LETTER. I was eight. I understood why they didn’t want my poem about slavery – really, what’s romantic about that?
Fast forward to college, senior year, and a professor who told me I’d never get published. That probably offhand comment by a frustrated artist killed my creative spirit. I stopped writing, took a job in politics, went to graduate school to learn how to run political campaigns. Met my husband, so I guess I need to thank her at the same time. It’s one of those things, the road not taken, which baffles me. I can’t imagine doing it any other way, but what if she had been encouraging, thought I should go ahead with my MFA? Would I still be here?
Fast forward to 2003. I’m living in Tennessee, am in between jobs, and have some time on my hands while I recover from back surgery. I’m reading John Sandford’s Prey series front to back. I have a wild hair. I’m going to write a book.
What inspired you to write this book?
In 2006, I saw an article from a North Carolina newspaper about a young pregnant mother named Michelle Young who was found murdered by her sister. Her death was unspeakably violent, and her child had been alone in the house for days with her mother’s corpse. The media reported a number of salient details, including the bloody footprints the child had left through the house. I watched the case, hoping there would be a resolution. Unfortunately, Michelle Young’s murder still isn’t solved. Her husband is the prime suspect.
Her story became the opening of JUDAS KISS.
The crime stories that seem to capture our interest as a society are the ones that take place where we feel the safest, which is inside our own homes. That’s where the majority of homicides take place. And we all know how much the media loves a good suburban murder, especially in my fictional Nashville. In the novel, there’s a sense of the fantastic surrounding this case, an “it could have happened to me” mentality couple with the media frenzy – satellite trucks parks on quiet streets, reporters camped on the lawns, every moment chronicled. It doesn’t happen that way in the Section 8 housing. The drug and vendetta killings don’t make the news very much. So in a sense, I’m capitalizing on what does capture our attention.
What kind of work routine did you use?
I’m a night owl, so I rise late in the morning, do the business side (answer email, read Murderati, Twitter, etc.) From 12-4 I write. I shoot for at least 1,000 words a day. It takes me six months to write a book – one month for research, four for writing, and one for editing. In a perfect world, I’d be writing a solid eight months out of the year, and researching and edited in the other four. Unfortunately, it never works that way, because the books go through their process at the house, and need touring, promotion, etc. It’s a juggling act, but an awful lot of fun.
What was the biggest challenge you encountered completing this book?
Actually, I had a lot of trouble because it was the first book I’d ever had more than a bare bones outline for. I had an in-depth 13 page synopsis, and it threw me for a loop because I’m a pantser – I write by the seat of my pants. My feeling is if I’m surprised, the reader will be too. I also think that despite my difficulties having a script to follow, the book is my best effort, the most solid of all my stories. I’m working on the sixth book in the series now, and I’m outlining that one, simply because I have the time and I’d like to see if I’m still anti-outline. I can always throw it out if it becomes too confining.
What was the greatest reward?
The starred Publisher’s Weekly review, hands down. I was shocked, and thrilled.
Why did you choose this particular title for your work?
It’s a literal title – the kiss of betrayal. I named it two years before I wrote it – sometimes a book knows its name from the start. In contrast, my fourth, THE COLD ROOM, is on its third title. I also must, must, must have a title before I can start writing. I can’t work without one.
What advice would you give to writers trying to get published?
Write every day. Read. Write every day. Read. Write every day. Read. Read. Read some more.
And follow your heart. You always hear write what you know. Well, I knew less than nothing about being a cop, but I’m passionate about forensics and behavioral analysis. I wanted to write something I’d enjoy reading, and knew I’d love doing the research. And I get to hang around with a bunch of cops now, so it was all worth it.
What book would you tell them is a must to read and why?
Stephen King’s ON WRITING and Elizabeth George’s WRITE AWAY. King’s book changed the way I thought about my writing. I read it while I was writing JUDAS KISS, and it shows, I think. The George book I read back at the very beginning. It’s a hugely detailed “Process,” and I highly recommend it for writers doing standalone, because it teaches how to world-build. And Christopher Vogler’s THE WRITER’S JOURNEY, which covers the mythic structure of fiction.
Who is your favorite author and why?
I’m a huge, huge fan of so many writers, it’s hard to pinpoint just one. I take different things from different authors and different styles. That said, in crime fiction, John Connolly is one of the most talented writers alive. John Sandford and Lee Child are brilliant series writers, Diana Gabaldon writes my favorite historical time-travel romances. I also love Nabokov, Austen, Rand and Rowling.
What book are you reading right now?
Jeff Abbott’s COLLISION. Mr. Abbott is another one of my favourites – the smart reader’s thriller writer. He’s fantastic.
What advice would you give to a debut novelist to survive in today’s publishing world?
Patience is a virtue, and perseverance is key. Be a good teammate, and MEET YOUR DEADLINES. I can’t emphasize that enough. When your book goes on submission, start the next one. Write thank you notes, and be sure that any kindness you receive, you pay forward. Karma is hard at work in the publishing industry. I have more tips on my website, JTEllison.com.
Thanks for having me!
My pleasure. Thanks for dropping by and all the best with the new book.
June 12, 2009
To Boldly Go Where No One Has Gone Before
Space... the Final Frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds; to seek out new life and new civilizations; to boldly go where no man has gone before.
Cue soundtrack.
I had some dental work done this week. Don’t you spare me a moment’s thought of sympathy, though–it was elective, cost a bajillion dollars and made me feel pretty. And I benefited, in large ways and in small. Why? I got to spend the better part of an afternoon under the lovely sedative grooves of Nitrous Oxide.
I wrote a post a couple of years ago (click here to read it) about the joys of nitrous. Nitrous and I get along well. It’s a creative booster shot, allowing me to get into a completely different frame of mind. I don’t use drugs, but after an hour with the nitrous, I get a glimmer of understanding about why some people might. Chasing the high, I think they call it, what drives most addicts into their addictions in the first place.
Anyway, because this procedure was going to take a while, they suggested I listen to my iPod.
So I queued up something I knew would take my mind off of things. The soundtrack to Star Trek, by the most brilliant Michael Giacchino. Giacchino does a lot of work with JJ Abrams, most notable the themes for ALIAS, LOST, and of course, STAR TREK.
I’m a huge Trekkie. So I was concerned about the re-energization of the franchise. Sometimes that can fall flat on its face, but Abrams did a masterful job. I can’t say enough good things about this movie – it moved me, made me cheer, captured my imagination, allowed my Dad and I to both indulge in our fascination with all things chaos and quantum, started me down a new avenue of research for a possible future book, and entertained me to the point that I saw it twice in the theater and I’m still hankering to see it again.
Part of the mastery of the movie is the script – so brilliantly rendered by Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman that I have to single them out – their interpretation and masterful devices allowed the series to be regenerated into films for the modern era, and for that I salute them. The casting is incredible – I adored Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto, as well as everyone else.
But another aspect of the movie that not a lot of people are talking about is the score by Giacchino. It is so subtle, so powerful, and so perfectly matched to the story that I honestly really didn’t even hear it the first time I saw the movie. Oh, it was there, and there were moments when I heard it, but for the most part, it did its job. Scores aren’t meant to be flashy and in your face. They are a compliment, the eggs that bind the batter so it can be made into a cake, the tray that holds the ice as its being frozen into cubes. In other words, absolutely necessary: the lynchpin of a good movie, the tent pole. Seen but unseen, heard but unheard.
Unless you’ve seen the movie, then downloaded the soundtrack, this may sound silly, but through the music, I can recreate every single moment of that film in my imagination. It’s so successful as a score that it becomes an immediate rewind button. Remarkable. That doesn’t happen to me very often. I’ve had soundtracks that I love, of course (Dances with Wolves, Harry Potter) but rarely am I so moved by the music that I can relive the movie, moment by glorious moment.
Giacchino’s score is wonderful – sweeping, poignant, visceral in spots; playful, sexual and seductive in others. There’s no question which music belongs to the heroes and which belongs to the villain. Nero, the Romulan mining ship captain and driving evil force in the movie, benefits from an especially powerful and ominous theme.
Listening to it under the influence of the nitrous, I wondered if Giacchino was influenced at all by Prokofiev – for some reason, I hear the three horns of the Wolf (from Peter and the Wolf) in the notes to signify Nero’s ship. We all know wolves are bad, bad, bad, and Nero qualifies as a wolf – a threat to the Federation of primary importance. (For those of you who are familiar with this, listen to the Andante molto and tell me what you think.)
Talk about evoking emotions with a classical piece – I can recreate the voice-over to Peter and The Wolf just by listening to the album. The fear, the joy. Ah, Disney at its finest (with the attendant happy ending for Sonia the Duck, too.)
It wouldn’t be the first time a composer has been influenced by an old master – the John William’s distinctive two-note heartbeat JAWS theme is suspiciously similar to the Allegro of Antonín Dvořák’s Symphony #9 in E minor (aka The New World Symphony.) Strangely enough, if you meld the Prokofiev and the Dvořák, it really evokes Nero’s theme in Star Trek. Hmm...
While most of you know my passion for wine, few of you know my undying addiction to classical music. I’ve been using classical for years – to drive me, to tell stories, to layer into my books for effect, as themes for each of my books, to get drunk to, to make love to. I played clarinet for years, with brief forays into flute and saxophone, and shared my first kiss with a trumpet player, so I’m kind of partial to orchestral music. Opera works the same way for me, I adore it. It changes me, alters me, if only for a moment. I've always loved the line from PRETTY WOMAN, where Richard Gere explains the obsession with opera:
People's reactions to opera the first time they see it is very dramatic; they either love it or they hate it. If they love it, they will always love it. If they don't, they may learn to appreciate it, but it will never become part of their soul.
I couldn’t agree more. I adore the stories told through the music – the emotions it evokes, the fact that just the right note can make or break a piece. It’s what I love about a perfectly pitched scored, like the Star Trek soundtrack. It becomes a part of my soul.
And somehow, I managed to remember this line of thought whilst under the influence of some serious drugs. I must admit, listening to the score under the influence was eye-opening. Mind-expanding, if you will. I felt the music in a completely different way than before. The closest I can remember coming to this was a long time ago, under the manipulative control of Grand Marnier (which is like absinthe to me) and listening to Phantom of the Opera over and over until I was in some sort of wicked trance.
I highly recommend you see the movie, download the score, and have a bit of your favorite non-inhibitor and experience this for yourself. It’s truly something to behold. Kind of like space.
Or maybe I was just stoned out of my gourd.
So how about you, ‘Rati faithful? Favorite movie scores? Favorite operas and classical pieces? And did you like the new Star Trek film?
Wine of the Week: De Toren Fusion V - A South African entry recommended by a dear friend. It's a bordeaux blend that's been compared to the finest Chateau Latour wines. Can't wait to try this one!
(Said dear friend also turned me on to the Kurtzman-Orci interview, so many thanks for both recommendations!)
June 05, 2009
An Overwhelming Bout of Homesickness
I'm not sure what's come over me, but I've just been overwhelmed with a sense of homesickness. Maybe it was something I smelled, or thought of, or dreamed of last night. Regardless, I find myself sitting in my living room in Tennessee wishing like hell I was someplace else. So, to help, I went looking for this blog I wrote several years ago when I WAS at home. I hope you enjoy it.
I’m away from home this week, visiting family in Colorado. I'm trying to work. I’m sitting on the deck, trying desperately to hit that magic 1,000 word a day vacation goal. I’m pecking away at the keyboard of my laptop, and I can’t concentrate.
It is just so beautiful here.
This is my home, where I spent my formative years. All of my firsts happened in this area. I learned to golf, and swim, and play tennis, and ski here. I learned to drive, had my first kiss, lost a close friend to suicide. I spent all of my time out of doors, leaving the house first thing in the morning and not returning until the gloaming. There were three of us in kindergarten, and it wasn’t until second grade that they decided to bus in some kids from neighboring areas, so we weren’t alone.
I learned to drive, to dream, to work. I fell in and out of love with my brother’s friends. I snuck off into the red rocks with a couple of friends to smoke cigarettes; we discovered dinosaur tracks in the rocks. I was isolated by geography, yet lived the fullest possible life that a child could lead.
These are often melancholy memories, for I left this area under extreme duress when I was a teenager. My parents moved us to Washington, D.C., someplace I had absolutely no interest in going to. I cried for a year. I left every part of me behind. For many unfortunate years, I believed I left the best parts of me behind.
This area is so fraught with emotion, with memories, that I can’t seem to work on the new book. From an objective sense, the beauty of the area overwhelms me. But what’s really happening is everywhere I look, I see the ghost of a smaller me, sniffing the bark of the pine trees trying to decide if the scent is chocolate, strawberry or vanilla. (Don’t believe me? Try it.)
I am so inextricably linked to these woods, these rocks, the greens, blues, blacks and browns, the deer and bear, that I can’t seem to keep Nashville and Taylor Jackson, my protagonist, foremost in my mind.
I’ve settled for writing some short stories. The tenor is completely different from some of my earlier work. It’s moody, and atmospheric, and I’m finding new expressions to illustrate my surroundings. I think once I’m back home, in my office, staring at the river birch outside my window, I’ll be able to refocus on Nashville, and killers, and homicide lieutenants.
This does not bode well for the lifelong dream – the house in Tuscany half the year to write, write, write.
In the meantime, I want to watch the black storm clouds lurk over the jade and stone mountains. I want to smell the sparkling air, tinged with the scent of wet asphalt, moldy leaves and the barest hint of skunk. I want to laugh at the antics of the towhees, scratching for dinner in the scrub oak.
I want to watch the golfers stream in off the course, shouting admirations to one another as they come in to the 19th hole for a post-round drink.
I want to watch the deer wander through the backyard, stopping at the birdbath for a quenching draught of water. They all seem to have had twins this year, so Bambi keeps interrupting my thoughts. (As does Jetta the Wonderdog.) They’re all adorable.
Each time I return, I realize that I didn’t leave the best parts of me behind, but stamped my imprint on the area in such a palpable yet subtle way that I will always feel like I’ve come home.
It’s okay that I can’t work on the book. There are other avenues to explore, other stories to put on paper. I hope to take it home with me, this texture and depth. For today though, this setting is just one spark that I will use to write something... different.
I’m away from home this week, visiting family in Colorado. I'm trying to work. I’m sitting on the deck, trying desperately to hit that magic 1,000 word a day vacation goal. I’m pecking away at the keyboard of my laptop, and I can’t concentrate.
It is just so beautiful here.
This is my home, where I spent my formative years. All of my firsts happened in this area. I learned to golf, and swim, and play tennis, and ski here. I learned to drive, had my first kiss, lost a close friend to suicide. I spent all of my time out of doors, leaving the house first thing in the morning and not returning until the gloaming. There were three of us in kindergarten, and it wasn’t until second grade that they decided to bus in some kids from neighboring areas, so we weren’t alone.
I learned to drive, to dream, to work. I fell in and out of love with my brother’s friends. I snuck off into the red rocks with a couple of friends to smoke cigarettes; we discovered dinosaur tracks in the rocks. I was isolated by geography, yet lived the fullest possible life that a child could lead.
These are often melancholy memories, for I left this area under extreme duress when I was a teenager. My parents moved us to Washington, D.C., someplace I had absolutely no interest in going to. I cried for a year. I left every part of me behind. For many unfortunate years, I believed I left the best parts of me behind.
This area is so fraught with emotion, with memories, that I can’t seem to work on the new book. From an objective sense, the beauty of the area overwhelms me. But what’s really happening is everywhere I look, I see the ghost of a smaller me, sniffing the bark of the pine trees trying to decide if the scent is chocolate, strawberry or vanilla. (Don’t believe me? Try it.)
I am so inextricably linked to these woods, these rocks, the greens, blues, blacks and browns, the deer and bear, that I can’t seem to keep Nashville and Taylor Jackson, my protagonist, foremost in my mind.
I’ve settled for writing some short stories. The tenor is completely different from some of my earlier work. It’s moody, and atmospheric, and I’m finding new expressions to illustrate my surroundings. I think once I’m back home, in my office, staring at the river birch outside my window, I’ll be able to refocus on Nashville, and killers, and homicide lieutenants.
This does not bode well for the lifelong dream – the house in Tuscany half the year to write, write, write.
In the meantime, I want to watch the black storm clouds lurk over the jade and stone mountains. I want to smell the sparkling air, tinged with the scent of wet asphalt, moldy leaves and the barest hint of skunk. I want to laugh at the antics of the towhees, scratching for dinner in the scrub oak.
I want to watch the golfers stream in off the course, shouting admirations to one another as they come in to the 19th hole for a post-round drink.
I want to watch the deer wander through the backyard, stopping at the birdbath for a quenching draught of water. They all seem to have had twins this year, so Bambi keeps interrupting my thoughts. (As does Jetta the Wonderdog.) They’re all adorable.
Each time I return, I realize that I didn’t leave the best parts of me behind, but stamped my imprint on the area in such a palpable yet subtle way that I will always feel like I’ve come home.
It’s okay that I can’t work on the book. There are other avenues to explore, other stories to put on paper. I hope to take it home with me, this texture and depth. For today though, this setting is just one spark that I will use to write something... different.
June 01, 2009
When Ego Attacks
Hubby and I went to a concert a couple of Saturdays ago, one I’d been looking forward to for weeks. Months! Billy Joel, with Elton John.
Now, for the record, I adore Billy Joel. Adore the music, the stories, the way he engages the audience. I’ve seen him in concert before, and it was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. It was at the Cap Center (now US Airways Arena) in Landover, Maryland. I was in high school, which meant a limited allowance, so I could only afford to purchase the cheap seats. Obstructed view. Behind the stage. I was a little bummed, but figured I’d be able to hear, even if I couldn’t see.
Boy, was I surprised. Billy Joel set up his stage with pianos on all four corners, and made a point of playing to every section of the crowd. Even though my seats were “obstructed,” I had a great view, and for a quarter of the concert, Billy sang directly to me. He was funny, self-effacing and charming. The music was outstanding. I went home feeling like I’d been a part of something special, something unique. He’d touched me, without ever having set eyes on me, or knowing I was there. Now that’s power.
Fast forward to current day. We can afford better seats now, though through a timing error we ended up in the nosebleeds. My vertigo and I enjoyed that. Thankfully, the lights went down quickly, and out came Billy and Elton. They played two songs in duet, then Billy exited the stage and Elton took over.
And I mean it when I say Elton took over. The lights. The flash. The pure, unadulterated rock. The individual songs that went on (and on, and on) for fifteen to twenty minutes. And after each song (finally) finished, Elton ran around the stage, banging himself on the chest and inciting the crowd for applause. If I had a microphone near his mind, it would have very clearly screamed LOOK AT ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Yawn.
We slipped out, took a break, got a drink, walked around, and still he played. Now, don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot of Elton John that I like. But this was a full-on Wembley Stadium show sandwiched into the Sommet Center. And there was this crazy thing that was also supposed to be going on..... Oh, right. Billy Joel.
Elton played for an hour and a half, and after every single song, he paraded around, basking in the adulation. It just felt so forced, so unnecessary. And in contrast, when Billy Joel finally was allowed to take the stage, he started a conversation with the crowd. He apologized to the people with the crappy seats. He told jokes. He talked about his love for, and connection to, Nashville. He took a moment after each song to introduce a band mate. He made it about us, and them, and not about him.
He had the crowd eating out of his hand in two seconds, simply because he seemed to grasp something Elton John didn’t. Billy was there for us. He was playing for us. Elton, sadly, played at us. Elton was a performer, but Billy was an entertainer.
And at the end of the concert, Elton walked off the stage and refused to do the encore. So disappointing.
We’ve all met those kinds of people, the ones who ask you how you are, then immediately launch into a recitation of how they are. The people who self-aggrandize, who bang their chests and do everything to get people to notice them. The people who are desperate for any kind of attention, and will do whatever it takes to make sure they’re at the center of it all.
There’s a lesson to be taken away from this. We authors, for better or for worse, are public figures. There are expectations, and challenges, along the way. It’s a heady, heady experience to have people read your work and appreciate it, to gain fans, to entertain strangers. And it’s very easy to fall into the “me” mentality: to think your life, your work, your stories are more important, more entertaining, and more appreciated than anyone else’s at the table. To let your ego take over and run away with your reputation.
I just hope that no one ever comes away from a conference, or a panel, or a signing that I’ve participated in and think that I’ve pulled an Elton John. Give me Billy Joel any day.
And speaking of Mr. Joel, I am most definitely in a New York state of mind. Literally, and figuratively. As you read this, I’m traipsing the streets of Manhattan, one of my favorites cities in the whole world. Lots of events on the plate: meetings galore, signings, and hopefully, a night to ourselves to have a quiet meal and some good wine. I’d like to squeeze in an afternoon at MOMA, a trip up the Empire State Building, and if my ankle holds up, a walk through Central Park. So please don’t hold it against me if I don’t comment in a timely fashion.
Your questions for today -
What's the best concert you've ever seen? Why?
And what's your favorite city in the whole wide world???
Wine of the Week: Chateau Ross 2005 Big Bitch Red
Now, for the record, I adore Billy Joel. Adore the music, the stories, the way he engages the audience. I’ve seen him in concert before, and it was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. It was at the Cap Center (now US Airways Arena) in Landover, Maryland. I was in high school, which meant a limited allowance, so I could only afford to purchase the cheap seats. Obstructed view. Behind the stage. I was a little bummed, but figured I’d be able to hear, even if I couldn’t see.
Boy, was I surprised. Billy Joel set up his stage with pianos on all four corners, and made a point of playing to every section of the crowd. Even though my seats were “obstructed,” I had a great view, and for a quarter of the concert, Billy sang directly to me. He was funny, self-effacing and charming. The music was outstanding. I went home feeling like I’d been a part of something special, something unique. He’d touched me, without ever having set eyes on me, or knowing I was there. Now that’s power.
Fast forward to current day. We can afford better seats now, though through a timing error we ended up in the nosebleeds. My vertigo and I enjoyed that. Thankfully, the lights went down quickly, and out came Billy and Elton. They played two songs in duet, then Billy exited the stage and Elton took over.
And I mean it when I say Elton took over. The lights. The flash. The pure, unadulterated rock. The individual songs that went on (and on, and on) for fifteen to twenty minutes. And after each song (finally) finished, Elton ran around the stage, banging himself on the chest and inciting the crowd for applause. If I had a microphone near his mind, it would have very clearly screamed LOOK AT ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Yawn.
We slipped out, took a break, got a drink, walked around, and still he played. Now, don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot of Elton John that I like. But this was a full-on Wembley Stadium show sandwiched into the Sommet Center. And there was this crazy thing that was also supposed to be going on..... Oh, right. Billy Joel.
Elton played for an hour and a half, and after every single song, he paraded around, basking in the adulation. It just felt so forced, so unnecessary. And in contrast, when Billy Joel finally was allowed to take the stage, he started a conversation with the crowd. He apologized to the people with the crappy seats. He told jokes. He talked about his love for, and connection to, Nashville. He took a moment after each song to introduce a band mate. He made it about us, and them, and not about him.
He had the crowd eating out of his hand in two seconds, simply because he seemed to grasp something Elton John didn’t. Billy was there for us. He was playing for us. Elton, sadly, played at us. Elton was a performer, but Billy was an entertainer.
And at the end of the concert, Elton walked off the stage and refused to do the encore. So disappointing.
We’ve all met those kinds of people, the ones who ask you how you are, then immediately launch into a recitation of how they are. The people who self-aggrandize, who bang their chests and do everything to get people to notice them. The people who are desperate for any kind of attention, and will do whatever it takes to make sure they’re at the center of it all.
There’s a lesson to be taken away from this. We authors, for better or for worse, are public figures. There are expectations, and challenges, along the way. It’s a heady, heady experience to have people read your work and appreciate it, to gain fans, to entertain strangers. And it’s very easy to fall into the “me” mentality: to think your life, your work, your stories are more important, more entertaining, and more appreciated than anyone else’s at the table. To let your ego take over and run away with your reputation.
I just hope that no one ever comes away from a conference, or a panel, or a signing that I’ve participated in and think that I’ve pulled an Elton John. Give me Billy Joel any day.
And speaking of Mr. Joel, I am most definitely in a New York state of mind. Literally, and figuratively. As you read this, I’m traipsing the streets of Manhattan, one of my favorites cities in the whole world. Lots of events on the plate: meetings galore, signings, and hopefully, a night to ourselves to have a quiet meal and some good wine. I’d like to squeeze in an afternoon at MOMA, a trip up the Empire State Building, and if my ankle holds up, a walk through Central Park. So please don’t hold it against me if I don’t comment in a timely fashion.
Your questions for today -
What's the best concert you've ever seen? Why?
And what's your favorite city in the whole wide world???
Wine of the Week: Chateau Ross 2005 Big Bitch Red
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